


balletic

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: Les Mis snippetfic [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, dance au, snippetfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:26:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Marius was willowy, nervous-if-elegant, a veritable wide-eyed Disney prince, Grantaire was shorter, stockier, rougher around all edges. He'd play the sneaking villain, the dastardly brute, the reckless royal doomed to tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	balletic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clenster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clenster/gifts).



> one day after I reblerged [this pretty photoset](http://christdior.tumblr.com/post/104910751651/claudio-coviello-rehearsing-for-la-scalas-swan), [clenster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/clenster/pseuds/clenster) said, "the swan lake photoset you just reblogged? judging from the first picture I thought it was a very dramatic rendition of the macarena."
> 
> after i stopped laughing i wrote this

"So, is this some variant of the macarena?" Combeferre asked in a whisper.

While simultaneously elbowing him, Courfeyrac whispered, "Hush."

Enjolras wondered, to himself, what a macarena was.

Courfeyrac's eyes were fixed upon the young man with the long, toned arms in the center of the room. Courfeyrac had met Marius; Combeferre and Enjolras had not; but whatever their prior acquaintance, Courfeyrac had not, it seemed, expected the sight currently in front of them.

Like all the dancers in the space, Marius wore a plain white short-sleeved t-shirt, of no special properties Enjolras could discern, and a pair of pants -- in his mind Enjolras put a question mark at the end of the word -- thin and tight enough to nearly qualify a person for an indecent exposure citation. Courfeyrac wore an expression Enjolras would have described as rapturous and also indecent.

All of these things were slightly at odds with the piano music, which sounded more mournful than tantalizing to Enjolras's admittedly untrained ear.

Prouvaire came through the door and tiptoed over with a shy smile. Enjolras shifted away from Combeferre to provide enough room for Prouvaire to plunk down between them.

Enjolras knew no-one was supposed to see the quick way Prouvaire snuck his hand around Combeferre's wrist and gave it a squeeze. For all that it was a two-second touch a light blush pinked the apples of Prouvaire's cheeks and, amazingly, Combeferre's as well. Enjolras bit back a smile.

"You have been introduced to our mysterious M. Pontmercy, then?" Prouvaire whispered to him. He tipped his head in the direction of Courfeyrac's unwitting seducer, who was twirling around in a manner Enjolras supposed was very...limber, presuming he did not lunge through the large bare window that took up most of the opposite wall.

Enjolras shook his head. "Bahorel said we were welcome to hang out until the rehearsal was finished." Meeting potential new ABC members in random locations was not unheard of, though a dance studio was slightly outside of Enjolras's comfort zone. He preferred the back rooms of libraries or sparsely visited museums, acquaintances' houses, even a quiet restaurant or cafe. In such places there was usually a deal less leaping about, barring the occasional police raid.

Someone clapped sharply; the piano music stopped on a dime, and Marius put both his feet back on the floor. The non-ABC onlookers -- mostly tired dancers slumped at the perimeter in various states of attention -- eased and began murmuring amongst themselves. An older woman with a rather severe hair bun materialized down from the ceiling (apparently) and either berated Marius within an inch of his life or praised him to the high heavens in French by way of Russia.

Bahorel poked his head into the room, caught Enjolras's eye, and waggled his eyebrows. He walked over in normal clothing, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his hair and beard still damp from a recent shower. Damp, or sweaty, but Enjolras didn't want to think about that.

"6 a.m. tomorrow," the woman said to the room, in a tone of voice indicating she wanted the loitering dancers to leave her cursed sight and come back in precisely ten hours or the consequences would include despair, deprivation, and possibly deportation. Theirs, not hers.

Courfeyrac sprung up, skirted around Bahorel, and was halfway to chatting up the now exhausted-looking Marius before Enjolras could manage to climb to his feet. By the time he had, gathering up his own bag and coat, Bahorel was bringing someone over.

"Grantaire, the gang. The gang, Grantaire," Bahorel said.

"Seriously?" Combeferre said, sticking out his hand to shake Grantaire's. "We were starting to think Bossuet and Joly had invented you."

"I didn't think that," Prouvaire said, waving a little wave at Grantaire. "I met him last week at Feuilly's and we had a lovely time."

"That's where I remember you from," Grantaire said, as though he had been trying to figure it out for ages. "I'm glad we had a lovely time; I don't really remember most of that evening."

"No," Bahorel said, grinning. "Unsurprisingly."

"Last blowout, scout's honor," Grantaire said, crossing his heart and shaking Prouvaire's hand.

He looked right at Enjolras then. Where Marius was willowy, nervous-if-elegant, a veritable wide-eyed Disney prince, Grantaire was shorter, stockier, rougher around all edges. He'd play the sneaking villain, the dastardly brute, the reckless royal doomed to tragedy.

(Enjolras guessed; he didn't actually know a single ballet storyline with any confidence, though he was reasonably sure Marius's current role would not later see his character turn into a swan...or a lake?)

It was not difficult to picture Grantaire smirking, or arguing, or holding forth with ceaseless sarcasm or unbridled inebriation, all of which constituted most of his preceding reputation. He had darker hair -- a mop of unruly curls -- and a squarer jaw dark with two or three days' of stubble. Darker eyes.

Which was where Enjolras stumbled, in his brain, because for all that-- Grantaire's eyes were as warm and transfixing as anything Enjolras could have imagined. When Grantaire held out his hand and said, "You must be Enjolras," there was no hint of menace, and what mockery was there seemed oddly tempered. Enjolras clasped his hand and felt, suddenly, certain Grantaire was, in point of fact, hiding the full extent of his--

Of his what? Affection? Which was ridiculous. They had literally just met. You could not have affection for someone you'd never seen for even second before. Attraction, maybe, but not veneration. Not that Grantaire was looking at him reverently--

Except, well, he kind of was. Maybe it would help if Enjolras let go of his hand?

"Nice to meet you," Enjolras said. The stale studio air had made his throat all funny.

Whatever Grantaire wanted to say in response was interrupted by a terrific crash: one of the ballerina's impromptu run-throughs had met with disaster when she spun into the upright piano. Every other dancer in the room rushed to her aid. Prouvaire poked Enjolras in the arm and pointed at Grantaire.

Enjolras blinked. He had somehow previously not noticed that Grantaire was wearing the full studio uniform: white t-shirt, extremely revealing pants.

"Ahem," Combeferre coughed. He shot Prouvaire a fake put-upon look that Prouvaire did not seem intimidated by in the least.

"Just saying, that's a pretty good view," Prouvaire whispered. Enjolras agreed, but tried very hard to do so invisibly.

**Author's Note:**

> when i googled the lyrics, i was gratified that i hadn't misremembered it: "Macarena" does in fact repeat the word macarena approximately 90 million times


End file.
